Opportunities
by KuryakinGirl
Summary: "You and I remember Budapest very differently."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer—Recognizable characters belong to Marvel… No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—Because I always need new fandoms like I do holes in the head… I'd like to blame my dear buddy Cindy Ryan, who always gifts the greatest plot bunnies, whether she realizes it or not, but I'll just thank her instead, for the inspiration and the beta. :) Based entirely on MovieVerse.

Opportunities—"You and I remember Budapest very differently."

* * *

There was one thing he knew about spies: skills, especially like the ones she displayed, were hard to come by. They were honed in the darkest corners of the world, tried by fire. Errors were paid for in blood, maybe even body parts. For her to be that talented and to look that flawless spoke volumes.

Clint Barton sat back on his heels from his perch high atop the neighboring building, watching as she disappeared into the night club. Director Nick Fury's words rang in his ears: _Under no circumstances is she allowed to just waltz out of there_.

The kill order had been given by the nebulous, mysterious Council that Fury only whispered about on the rarest of occasions. Normally, Clint had no issue following through with the tasks he was given. That was his job, and he excelled at it.

Ever since he had arrived in-country, however, something felt wrong, off even. Like he shouldn't be there, doing that. It wasn't that she was beautiful, or that her file read like any other Russian tragedy hold-over from the Cold War, or that he was intimidated by her very distinctive skill set. It was just that every fiber in his being told him _not_ to do what he'd been told.

_Stay at a distance_, Fury had told him. _Do what you do best_.

Clint felt compelled to venture closer, to use his brain in addition to his brawn. Wasn't that what he did best? Didn't SHIELD recruit him because he was an expert in marksmanship, because he could analyze situations and provide the best course of action under stressful situations? Granted, at that moment, he felt oddly serene.

Securing his bow and specialty quiver, he decided that a drink at the bar was in order. And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd be granted an actual audience with his target: the illustrious Black Widow.

* * *

There was one thing she knew about tails: boredom was rampant. They grew restless, agitated at having to do the grunt work. Following someone like herself undetected was a challenge, and the blond on the rooftop had done an admirable job, up to a point. She'd made him two days ago. While she couldn't be sure how long he'd been there, she imagined not long. She'd only been in Hungary a week.

Spotting her incongruous shadow, however, meant having to adjust her timetable, so that she could do her work unimpeded. She hadn't seen him trade off, which meant he was a loner, just like she was, and that was a very good thing for her purposes. He'd slip up, blink or become distracted, maybe have to call in to whoever had sent him after her. Natasha Romanoff knew it was only a matter of time and, when the opportunity would present itself, she would be ready.

In the meantime, she had to wait. The Russian ex-patriot had grown up waiting.

She ducked into a local hot spot. It was crowded, steamy, with way too many people for her taste. The flashing lights and electronic bleating music would've been enough to cause any number of epileptic seizures. It only moderately annoyed her while the rest of the young, carefree patrons danced about in trance-like wonder.

The bar itself was just as packed as the dance floor, and she flirted her way onto a stool, vacated by a dark-haired swarthy man who should be thankful she let him _live_ after the nasty things he'd said to her.

Once the bartender came through with her vodka tonic, she glanced about the room. As if on cue, her tail arrived.

He was handsome, she guessed, if one liked the all-American look he sported. She didn't have a type, and prided herself on that. Having types meant having a soft spot—a weakness—and that was one thing she refused to have. Lesser assassins got killed that way. She was no lesser _anything_.

Running a manicured finger along the lip of her glass, she knew exactly how the night would pan out. She would have two drinks, maybe venture into the throng of pulsating dancers to make her escape in another hour or so. Giving handsome the slip would allow her to get back to work and, maybe, she could finish up, getting the hell out of Dodge by midnight.

Waking up on the first class flight to Paris would be just fine by her.

What she wasn't expecting, however, was the warm voice in her ear and the steady, solid weight of a hand on her shoulder.

"Funny, this doesn't look like a spider's web."

Without looking back, she knew she'd miscalculated. And that was something she _never_ did. "My, my. Welcome to my _dance_ parlor…"

The chuckle was all too easy and far too calm. "I'm no fly, Miss Romanoff."

"You certainly have been a _pest_," she countered.

Clint, with a well-executed glare, cleared the seat to her right and sat beside her. "I have to say, you are impressive."

She glanced at him, momentarily caught by the hue of his eyes. "Your skills are lacking, mister…" She drifted off.

"Let's put a pin in that for the moment, Charlotte." He ignored her scoff. "Seems you haven't been able to catch your target."

"I'm on holiday—one I'd hoped would be free of CIA agents—so I really have no idea what you're talking about."

He flashed a disarming grin, one that _almost_ worked. He could tell, because she'd glanced at his mouth, her eyes lingering there longer than was necessary to discern his motives. "Not CIA."

"Interpol?"

"Let's just say I'm part of an agency that deems you a threat."

She batted her eyes, a combination of innocence with a touch of seduction that, she knew, mortal men couldn't resist. Except, somehow he had managed it. And he added another of those infuriating chuckles for good measure.

"Won't help you this time, Miss Romanoff. But, what do you say? Leave all this high-wire, no net stuff to the psychopaths and come join up, where there's medical, dental, and retirement benefits."

It was her turn to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "This is what the US government offers to their enemies?"

"All right," he said, leaning in slightly. "You drive a hard bargain. "Holidays and two-week vacation, paid."

"You expect me to believe that you're a business-minded headhunter? One that's _not_ after my scalp?"

Clint watched her for a moment. It was clear she couldn't decide if he was serious or deranged. Maybe he was the latter, because when Director Fury would find out, he'd be a dead man. But, some orders were worth disregarding. Some people were _worth_ saving. "My intel says you're going after Dimitri Volodin tonight. Once he's dead, you've got a redeye flight so you can keep running. But, my intel also says you're about to walk into a trap. Volodin's paranoid, increased his security ten-fold."

She narrowed her eyes. "And I should believe you?"

"Best opportunity you've got? Tomorrow morning, right before dawn. Guards will be exhausted. Adrenaline of the night's watch will be crashing. We can take them out together."

Her eyebrows drifted up her forehead as she repeated the most foreign word he'd said: "_We_?"

"Drug-runner, human trafficker. Your target's a scumbag who's ruined a lot of lives, not just that of your deep-pocketed benefactor."

"By dawn, I could be safe, far from here."

"By dawn, with your current plan, you'll be in a body bag. You're good. You are, Natasha, there's no doubt about that, but good can be _greater_."

She rolled her eyes. Didn't he realize that her moniker meant something? That she _excelled_ alone, and she'd be damned if she'd become some government chew toy, thrown to the dogs to see what happened. "While I appreciate the offer," she began, her voice laced with sarcasm.

"Barton," he interjected.

She blinked, confused.

"Clint Barton," he provided, pointing at himself.

Annoyed but undeterred, she huffed. "Mr. Barton, I hope you are as good as you think you are… or else it'll take you a _long_ time to find me again."

He smiled, paying for _her_ drink. "See you just before sunup."

* * *

Stay tuned…


	2. Chapter 2

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one. Also... to the numerous readers who have set this story to watch and/or who have favorited... Wow. Thank you. Wasn't expecting that kind of a response. ~K

Previously, on Avengers: Clint Barton is following the illustrious Natasha "Black Widow" Romanoff and, while he's tasked with killing her, he offers her information instead.

* * *

She'd gotten over being furious, but it had taken some time of sitting quietly, alone in the shadows. Once she'd calmed down, she began retooling her plan, wondering if her mystery man would join her, as he'd said he would. Given the vast increase in guards, it would be helpful, having someone watch her back.

If, of course, she could trust him _not_ to shoot or stab her there. She still wasn't sure about that.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled slowly. Her night would've gone so much better had she been able to catch that midnight flight, complete with a champagne nightcap before drifting off to sleep on her way to safety. Instead, she fumed. _Stupid Barton and his stupid intel_.

What the hell kind of name was Barton anyway?

Clint attempted to keep the smirk from his lips when he came quietly, stealthily up to her position. "Morning."

She shot him a dangerous, annoyed look.

Wordlessly, he removed the recurve bow from its case and, with a well-practiced flick, extended the compact model into its full size.

She was sure he'd be packing heat, but hadn't expected _sharp sticks_. "Listen, Robin Hood, this isn't Nottingham."

"Budapest. I know."

"It's also the twenty-first century…" His knowing smile irked her even further.

"Are you concerned for my safety, Widow, or my inability to save your skin?"

"Americans," she muttered in Russian under her breath.

He let it slide. "So, what's your plan?"

She looked at him quizzically.

"The great Black Widow… scourge of the scourge… as deadly as she is beautiful… without a plan?" he asked, disbelieving.

"I'm working on it!" Taking a quick breath, she realized she'd let him annoy her far beyond where she should've. "If I could cause some kind of a distraction, at the front and side entrances, it would force Dimitri out the back, out here," she said, gesturing to the abandoned factory's sparse loading area that lay before them. There was very little cover opportunity.

"On it," Clint said with a nod.

Natasha grabbed his arm roughly. "Wait… How?" She felt his muscles twitch beneath her hand, through her black leather gloves. There was a gentle whirring sound was oddly mechanical and very out of place.

"Mind releasing me? I'd be happy to show you."

She shook her head. "If this goes badly…"

He lowered his voice, sounding earnestly serious. "I'm in this as deep as you are, Natasha. The way we both survive this is through teamwork." Off her hesitation, he added: "It's not fatal. Promise."

"It could be," she quipped but she let go of his arm.

He offered her a smile in return. In one fluid, swift motion, he pulled and nocked an arrow before letting it fly.

Her eyes narrowed, watching as it landed at the side entrance doing… absolutely nothing. Through clenched teeth, she sighed. "Barton…"

Except, he was already on the move, keeping to the tree line cover she'd found.

While she drew her weapons, keeping one gun trained on her so-called ally, her eyes never left the building.

Loosing another arrow, Clint ducked for cover.

When she turned to see if he'd somehow double-crossed her, and the arrows (because, really, who used those?) had signaled Dimitri's men instead, she was suddenly rocketed by dual explosions. It had been exactly what she'd asked for, and it had worked exactly how she'd imagined, as men came pouring out the back door.

Clint rushed back toward her, offering her a hand up.

She eyed his outstretched arm for a moment before accepting it. "What the hell was that?"

"That? What you asked for. This is where you say 'thank you.'"

She didn't have the chance to respond, instead firing at Dimitri's small army. The first wave fell easily, but more kept coming. She ran through ammunition like water, ejecting clips and slapping new ones in as fast as she could go. "How many did your reports indicate might be here?" she asked over the sound of incessant gunfire. She had to give it to him—Clint was good under pressure, calm and collected.

He fired off two more arrows while she took aim again. "Best I have, he went from about twenty-five to two-fifty, maybe three hundred."

The grin on Natasha's face was grim. "Acceptable odds. Hope you brought your a-game, Barton."

"I'm always…" He drifted off when the men fell back, retreating into the building. "Ready," he finished dumbly as their once target-rich environment emptied.

She muttered a curse, running toward the main complex itself. Clint could only follow.

The fire lapping at the side entrance hissed as water was intermittently thrown onto it, to try to douse the flames.

Through the window, Natasha was able to see another half dozen men and dispatched of them easily. Though she didn't have a firm count on the dead or gravely injured, she knew that she and Clint had to have done some major damage to their numbers. Pretty impressive for a two-man operation.

"They must be desperate," Clint commented, his blue eyes ever watchful, waiting for his next clear shot.

"This place was supposed to be fortress-like. Three entrances, no roof access, no basement levels, though. No place for Dimitri to hide," she said, nearly growling in anger at the mention of her target's name.

Clint clicked through to the explosive arrowheads again. "They're having enough trouble with these two doors… seal off the last exit, there's no way out." He backed up enough to get a clear shot at the final door. It sailed cleanly, landing solidly at the center of the door. "Brace for impact," he told her, giving her a moment to prepare before igniting the incendiary with another button press on his bow. He felt her eyes on him, studying him. While he didn't look back at her, he offered her a slight shrug. "Not so old-fashioned after all, is it?"

"Hmm," she murmured.

"You could at least admit—" He was unable to complete his thought, as an armored vehicle suddenly tore out the side of the building, coming straight for him.

Natasha didn't think; she merely reacted.

Clint found himself on his back, the wind knocked out of him by the lithe Russian on his chest.

She remained focused on the tank, however, and once he was safely out of harm's way, she was on her feet, taking a few potshots at it.

Getting to his knees, Clint loaded a different arrow, this one with a focused, short-range EMP. It landed on the rear of the tank, stopping it immediately but also supercharging the air at their distance.

Their eyes met briefly, before there were more shots to return, more cover to take. Both dropped and tumbled to safer, defensible positions. Natasha may have spoken glibly about the odds, but they were making a dent and neither had yet to take any real damage. If she got the chance, she'd love to goad Dimitri about the perils of finding good help.

The longer the battle wore on, however, the more she wondered if he'd gotten away, if he'd slipped out somehow, when she wasn't looking. The thought made her sick to her stomach. The whole job was supposed to be different. She wasn't supposed to pick up some hanger-on, or to be taking on what appeared to be a never-ending army. Her employer had promised a quick jaunt to town, a simple assassination.

"Barton?"

He glanced briefly at her.

"What'd you say your agency was?"

He toppled another attacker before responding. "I didn't."

She sighed, catching her breath for a moment and checking her ammo count. "Are they sending back up?"

"Why would they?"

"Just curious. To see if they want my services as badly as you claim. To see what you're worth to them."

"I won't be a feather for your cap if you kill me," he told her. "There are far bigger, better targets."

"Oh?" she queried innocently. "Such as?"

"Running low on ammo over there, Widow?" he deflected.

"Bullets are smaller than _bolts_. I'm all right. You?"

"Adequate."

"That quiver of yours… Magical?"

"R&D is kicking, but they aren't that good yet." He fired off another round. "Romanoff?"

"Yeah?"

"This Volodin guy…"

As though she could read his mind, she shook her head. "If he was dead, these hired guns would scatter. Once the money man's gone, there's no reason for them to stay. Until then…"

"Gonna be a long morning," he quipped.

It had felt like they'd been at it quite a while already, as the sun was peeking over the horizon already. The burgeoning daylight made her black leather outfit and his dark gray suit stand out in stark contrast to the grass and foliage that they'd easily been able to hide in before dawn. Natasha didn't want to admit it. In fact, if tortured, she'd _never_ confess. Having Clint with her was a relief. His aim was true, his heart good. She was glad her shadow had introduced himself to her.

* * *

Stay tuned…


	3. Chapter 3

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Previously, on Avengers: Natasha learns Clint was right about her target's new security. The Black Widow and Hawkeye work surprisingly well together.

* * *

By lunchtime, the body count was astronomical. They'd long since run out of ammunition and had to result to hand-to-hand combat. His left arm was bleeding from a moderately deep cut. Her face was scraped up, bruised. Both were exhausted, having surpassed their own "fighter's high," something akin to a marathon runner's emotions.

Dozens of bodies lined the still burning, charred entrances of the building. A handful of the still-living guards were fleeing, while others were surrendering in droves, laying down their weapons at their feet. It was quite a feat, to have accomplished so much between just the two of them.

It still wasn't a success in her book, though. She'd been handsomely paid for a job, and Dimitri Volodin was still missing. The more who came to surrender, the more who ran, the more agitated she became. As the surging rage sped through her, she stopped one of the guards. "Where is he?" she spat angrily.

The guard pointed weakly toward the building he'd just vacated.

She all but threw him backwards as she released him, and she stalked toward the building, picking up one of the abandoned weapons, ensuring that a round was in the chamber, and that it still held an adequate number in the clip.

Clint was on her heels. "You sure this is what you want to do?" he asked quickly.

She saw red, and had for a while. He was either incredibly brave or royally stupid to ask such a question to her when she held a loaded weapon. "I was hired to do a job; I'm going to do it."

"Volodin's the lowest kind of criminal, one who preys on our basest desires. Why kill him? Why not let justice run its course, let him be held responsible for his crimes? Let him pay back the people he's hurt?"

"I was _paid_ to do this," she said, nearly exasperatedly.

"Then, fine. Do your job." He stopped walking. "Just one thing, Natasha…"

Reluctantly, she looked back at him.

"I was paid to come here, to kill you."

She leveled the weapon at him in the blink of an eye, her breath, unbidden, catching in her throat.

"You see how well I followed that order," he said, his hands up in surrender.

"Why didn't you?" she asked. Her energy had shifted, from being frustrated at her target to a more personal, panicked variety.

"My orders said you were a live wire, crazy, blood thirsty, and a danger to the world. You're none of those things, not from what I've seen. Certainly not from what I saw out there," he said, gesturing toward the grounds. She was calm, cool, and collected, and, if anything, would be a benefit, if she used her abilities differently. "If this is what you want to do… by yourself… running afoul of the law, having no one to watch your back, to look out for you…" He shrugged. "I'll go back, say I missed you. That, by the time I caught your trail, you were already gone."

She didn't want to believe that he was decent like that. She had very definite rules about relationships with other people whether they were partnerships, associations or even friendships. He wanted her to break them, to mold her into something different—something she _wasn't_. Her history refused to allow her to let him in or to believe in what he was telling her, not without cause. "Why would you do that for me?"

"You're lost right now. I've been there. Somebody had to pull me out. I can do the same for you."

She shook her head. "I'm not about to wear a uniform, to conform to some… government _drone_. Not American or otherwise."

"Well, this one is more global anyway."

"It _is_ Interpol!"

Clint couldn't help but smile, chuckling that easy, light sound. "It's SHIELD," he told her. "It's more than an acronym for a mouthful of words. It is what we are, what we do. It's not that different from what you're doing now. Someone will still tell you what you have to do. You'll still get paid for it."

"Then what makes it any different than now? Than this?" she asked, frustrated. She felt like he was trying to corner her.

"It means I'll still have your back, that a whole agency will protect you, and that you'll protect them. It means you don't have to wonder when another SHIELD agent is coming to kill you. Because if I go back empty handed, you can believe that the kill-order will stand. And somebody worse will come after you, and they'll succeed."

"It was all a set-up, from the moment you started tailing me…"

If it was an accusation, he decided, it was a weak one. It was like she was deflating in front of him. "I was ready to take you out," he admitted. "But why? You have skills, talents, abilities, strengths… all things that SHIELD needs. If you were a little less frightening, they probably would've been after you—to _recruit_ you—sooner."

"You have the authority, to turn a kill order into a _keep_ order?" she asked, the gun never once wavering from where she had it aimed at his chest.

"No, I don't."

She chided herself for getting her hopes up, however momentarily, that he was a good guy. Shaking her head, she looked away.

"I don't, that's true," he continued. "But you do."

"Barton, just… stop," she said, nearly begging.

He took a step toward her. "You can help prove to Director Fury that you're worth more to him—to the world—alive. I can open that door for you. But you're the one that has to walk through it."

"Or you're waltzing me in for slaughter," she said, her eyes narrowing.

"If you're as good as I _know_ you are… what do your instincts tell you?"

She drew in a slow, shallow breath. "That I'm going to regret this, one way or another."

* * *

Much later…

* * *

The exhaustion turned to _starvation_ once the Chitauri had been defeated, and the atomic bomb had been averted from taking out Midtown. They all thought he'd been kidding, when Tony Stark said something about going for schwarama.

It was all just a little too surreal, with the aliens and their technology lying dormant on the sidewalks, dropping wherever they happened to be when the inter-dimensional door powered by the Tesseract had been closed. While the proprietors of the shop had been kind, welcoming them in, it had been peculiar, to turn off the fight.

After all, they'd been fighting each other even before Loki's army arrived.

Clint glanced at Natasha as they settled in to wait on their orders, sliding enough chairs around the table that they could all eat together. "How was this like Budapest?" He distinctly remembered that mission, and there had been _no_ aliens there.

Tony glanced at them from across the table.

"Buda-what?" asked Thor.

Bruce Banner cleaned his glasses on the edge of his shirttail, glad he was back to _normal_ size. "Budapest. It's a city in Eastern Europe, a country called Hungary."

"I'm definitely hungry!" Thor said, glancing back at the kitchen.

"No, I think he meant…" began Steve Rogers before waving off the demigod. "Never mind."

Clint was still looking expectantly at Natasha, who was squirming under his scrutiny. "Well?"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" she asked, swirling her straw in her soda, listening to the ice cubes clink together.

Clint slid closer to her, propping his foot up on the back of her chair, as she sat on the very front edge.

Natasha hoped that if she avoided the question, his stare, maybe she could avoid confessing how much the past few days had reminded her of when they'd met. How they'd been on opposite sides, how they'd fought against the odds to bring the other into the fold, or how they'd taken on numerous enemies and survived, relatively unscathed.

Or how relieved she'd felt, that he was fighting at her back again.

Mostly just that.

While Bruce and Tony chatted about the effects of nuclear fallout slipping through a closing wormhole, and Steve and Thor attempted to figure out exactly what they'd ordered, Clint watched her, how she deftly avoided everyone's eyes, especially his. "Nat," he breathed.

She closed her eyes, hearing him practically whisper the nickname he'd given her.

Tony drifted off in mid-sentence to return his attention to the couple across from him. "I'm sorry, I just…" He waggled his finger back and forth between them. "Are you two…? I mean, is this… I see sparks. Don't you see sparks?" he asked, looking at Thor. "You, being the god of thunder, you'd be the expert, right?"

Steve jumped in. "I think it's pretty obvious they don't want to talk about it. People deserve some privacy, even us, don't you think?"

"You do seem… _lighter_… when he's around," Thor said with a nod.

"Lighter. That's a good word," Tony agreed. "Does SHIELD have rules about things like that? Not that I'm advocating you follow rules because…" He shivered uncontrollably for just a second.

Natasha closed her eyes.

"Stark, c'mon. Take a break."

"Cap, I can't help it," returned Tony. "I see the human condition at work, in particularly interesting subjects, I have to say something."

Bruce watched as Natasha shook her head subtly. "Guess it's a good thing you don't have… an 'other guy.' Or, I guess, an 'other girl,' in your case." His eyes flew to Clint as he nearly tripped over his tongue to correct himself. "Woman. She's a woman."

Clint gave that easy, warm, soft chuckle that had wormed its way into her heart so early.

"All right, that's _it. _The next one to speak…" She drifted off menacingly.

Tony started to open his mouth, but shut it when she pointed at him.

"I'm _not_ joking," she promised.

Clint wordlessly placed a hand on her shoulder, rubbing it for the minutest of moments. As he'd told her in Budapest, she was the one to save her own life, and she had. And she held the lives of all the Avengers in her hands.

Whether the others knew it or not, they'd never be safer than with her. Clint knew that for a fact.

* * *

End.


End file.
